


Amity

by abundanceofvowels



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, Gen, Past Drug Use, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-25
Updated: 2013-08-25
Packaged: 2017-12-24 15:25:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/941545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abundanceofvowels/pseuds/abundanceofvowels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was in his head, the chemicals in his brain; this need for physical affection.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Amity

      When he was four, it was a stuffed giraffe named Adam. When he was ten, a 50th anniversary edition Encyclopedia Britannica with the pages carefully folded over on important entries (‘beekeeping’ and ‘automobile’). Starting at age nineteen and developing with an increase in frequency to age thirty two, it was cocaine. Now, at thirty six, Sherlock struggled to refrain from applying a third nicotine patch to his forearm and curled into a tighter ball on the sofa.

 

     As a young boy, he had a reputation of being solitary, taking comfort from learning and doing things on his own. He hadn’t quite been able to shake the image, as time went on. Alone and lonely. Living in London, Sherlock Holmes was not alone. In the bustle of city life, he had managed to snag a reliable flatmate in the form of a retired army doctor. John Watson brought welcomed changes to Sherlock’s life and he was smart enough to know that the he had done the same for the other’s. He had found a friend in this broken man, John even called him his ‘best’. Sherlock’s heart was comforted, along with his mind shielded by bone and muscle and skin in body cavities. Oh, but his body.

 

     Sherlock Holmes was not a “cuddler”. He’d held lengthy conversations, in the darkness of night, with Adam about the reasons the sky was blue and Mycroft was such an unbelievable prat. Sherlock stared into the buttons his synthetic companion boasted for eyes and, on nights when he felt as if the layers of blankets and quilts were not enough to shield him from the ice at the edges of his mind, reached out a hand from his nest to grasp a soft hoof and rubbed circles into it.

 

     By the time Mummy told Sherlock that he was too old for Adam, the toy had threadbare patches on the dark fleece at its feet. She’d taken it away and Sherlock had cried when he heard the rubbish truck the next morning, silent tears shaking his tiny frame. He’d gotten his first real book for Christmas that year and Mycroft, in an uncharacteristic display of brotherhood, had spent the evening reading it to him until Sherlock could recite it word for word. It was The Emperor’s New Clothes.

 

     Sherlock’s shoes stank of stale vomit and his suit was wrinkled from close quarters in dark and smokey night clubs. He hadn’t wanted to join the boy from his chemistry class, not at first. Soon, the darkness became more home to him than the tiny bed in his shared dorm. When the sun was just short of coming up over the horizon, Sherlock had puncture marks in the crook of his elbow and no key to his home away from home.

 

     John never made him go to clubs. They went to pubs on occasion, usually for a case, and hardly ever to get drunk. John went more often with the goal of pulling a woman, but he never lost his keys and he always came home. Good, reliable John.

 

     It didn’t make the itch at the base of his skull go away. John found him on the sofa that morning, curled in a ball with his nails digging into the flesh at his hairline.

 

     “Sherlock? You okay?”

 

     When Sherlock’s fingers twitched as a reply, John breathed an deep sigh and gently tugged him by the elbow. Sherlock had moved and ended up on his own bed, by some grace of God. As soon as the door of his room clicked closed, Sherlock pulled the duvet over his ears and tugged an overstuffed pillow to his chest. It was cold but soft and brought him some modicum of comfort. He hated it, wanting to be so close to another object; hated the fact that his body craved this sensation. He hated that he had come so far in years without another body to hold against his, even just for this.

 

     John stood in the doorway and watched his friend cling to his plush bedmate. Under the pile of covers and curled so tightly, the tall man looked so small.

 

     “Sherlock?” It was a whisper. Sherlock’s body tensed and he held his breath. John wasn’t supposed to see him like this. John wasn’t supposed to know that he turned into a child when he wasn’t around (though John would argue rather the opposite). He was pathetic, hugging a pillow and pretending it was another living, breathing thing that wanted to be close to him. The mattress dipped. “Hey…” John’s voice was so soft, so calculated with kindness. It made Sherlock’s chest ache. “…you sure you’re okay? Does your stomach hurt?” Of course John would assume illness in such a position. It would be easy to say yes. John would bring him something to calm his stomach and check on him in a few hours. He would leave, not wanting to disturb Sherlock when he felt poorly. Sherlock shook his head.

 

     “No? Headache, then?” Good, reliable, _stupid_ John. Though, Sherlock supposed he had a point. It was in his head, the chemicals in his brain; this need for physical affection. Another shake of his head ensured that John wouldn’t leave just yet. “No headache? Well, you’ll have to tell me what’s bothering you or I can’t help.”

 

     Ah, the crux of the problem. _I can’t tell you, John_. Sherlock clenched his jaw and worried the fabric between his fingers. An unexpected touch to his shoulder blade caused him to jolt. Instead of moving his hand away, John kept it over the curve of bone and began to rub his hand in small circles. Sherlock’s body betrayed him by leaning into the warmth seeping through his thin shirt and sealed his fate.

 

     “You know,” John said, toeing off his shoes and swinging his legs up onto the mattress “if you needed a hug, you only had to ask. I’m a doctor, Sherlock. But I’m also your friend. People need hugs sometimes, it’s okay. And, well, I- I don’t mind giving you one. If…if you need it. Sometimes”. Sherlock would have chided John’s awkward delivery if the closeness of his body wasn’t already comforting him, causing his fingers to loosen their grip on the pillow. Before he could allow his body to realize what it was doing, Sherlock moved a few inches back toward John’s awkward semi-recline. It was just enough of a hint. Biting back a grin, John moved closer and pulled Sherlock back toward his chest, leaving enough space between their pelvises that the proximity was still barely that of friends, rather than lovers. He lifted Sherlock’s long arms away from their weakened grip on the pillow and shifted his own limbs beneath them. There was no denying it. This was not a typical hug. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were “spooning”. And it felt _fabulous_.

 

John hummed his appreciation and, beneath the bed, the box of nicotine patches collected dust.

**Author's Note:**

> A short fic written and posted first on tumblr because the idea of Sherlock hugging a pillow wouldn't leave me alone. The formatting doesn't quite come across as well here, and I call them by name about 30,000 times. Not beta'd or brit-picked. I seem to have this obsession with spooning and sleep deprivation...


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